Don't Order Dog_ 1(9)

But no face.

Almost as if it had been intentionally timed, a man moving through the dense crowd stood directly between her mysterious man and the camera, effectively obscuring everything but the outline of his elusive face. Behind the blurry edges of the passing man, Jeri could almost feel his smile beaming back; could almost see his dark, intelligent eyes staring back at her smugly. The fact that his face was so tantalizingly close and yet hidden once again sent a ripple of frustration through her.

“He’s either really good at hiding, or really poor at being seen.” Chip said in a low voice, as if reading Jeri’s thoughts.

“I reckon so,” Joe replied, his mouth twisted in thought. He dropped the Polaroid on the counter and suddenly looked up at Jeri, his eyes wide with excitement. “Say Jeri, I have an idea.”

“What’s that, Joe?” Jeri asked as she slowly marked the unread page and laid the book on her lap.

“I don’t think your mystery man is going to stop writing any time soon, and even though he’s… you know… kind of out there, he writes some pretty funny shit.” Joe paused for a second, his bear paw of a hand stroking at his chin. “Plus he’s wearing our world renowned t-shirt,” his voice dropped into a low, smooth tone as he did his best TV announcer impersonation, “Available for purchase exclusively at Joe’s Last Stand Saloon!”

“Get to the point, Joe.”

“Yeah, right,” Joe stammered. He quickly glanced around the room, his thick fingers frantically stroking his whiskered face. “So what if we posted the letters and photos somewhere in the bar where people could read them? Then everyone would get a laugh out of it. And hell, look around – it certainly couldn’t hurt business.” He picked up the letter and waved it in the air, his face red with excitement. “Christ, all these little college bastards raised on reality-TV would eat it right up!”

Chip, sitting quietly next to him, suddenly chimed in. “And who knows… maybe someone will recognize him and put an end to the mystery.”

“Exactly,” Joe said, nodding his head. He turned and smiled at Jeri.

“So… what do you think?”

Jeri stared quietly at both men. Why was this a tough question? she asked herself. Did it really matter if Joe wanted to display some ridiculous letters from a man she didn’t know? She probably wouldn’t give a second thought to sharing love letters from others she’d received in the past – and those were from men she’d actually known. So why were these any different? And yet for some reason the idea felt distinctly wrong, as if she would be exposing something very private; something that belonged just to her.

Unfortunately, at the moment, as Joe smiled earnestly at her, she couldn’t quite identify what that something was.

“Sure Joe. Go ahead,” Jeri said flatly, unable to inject any enthusiasm in her voice. “It’ll be good for the bar. And like Chip said, maybe someone will actually know who this guy is.”

Joe slapped his hands loudly against the bar. “Great! Let’s do it.” He turned and pointed towards the wall at the front of the saloon near the arched window. “We’ll hang ‘em up right over there, where everyone can see ‘em.” He paused again as his fingers worked his chin, his eyes clouded with inspiration. “It’ll be a monument to romance and love… a shrine to our own mysterious ‘last stander’!”

Chip suddenly erupted in laughter, his broad shoulders shaking visibly. From her corner seat behind the bar, Jeri quietly opened her book and pretended to read, ignoring the feeling of nausea beginning to grow in her stomach.

“By the way,” Joe said, suddenly turning to Jeri. “You’re not really going to cut your hair, are you?”

“What?” Jeri asked, glaring at him over her book. “What are you talking about?”

“Your friend mentioned in his letter that you were planning to cut your hair. Is that true?”

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but no. I have no plans to cut my hair.” Jeri went back to her book for a moment before looking again at Joe. “This guy isn’t a mind reader, Joe. Nor is he my friend. He doesn’t know anything about me.”

“Yeah, you’re right… sorry Jeri,” Joe said apologetically, glancing at the letter on the counter. “But that’s good news,” he said with a thin smile. “A short-haired Jeri would definitely not be good for business.”





8.




The red-orange light of sunset slipped through the rustic cottage windows of Augustine’s restaurant and etched the wall like a shimmering, fire-drawn blade. Beneath it, the old panels of mahogany glowed brightly, casting a warm radiance through the dark, densely packed dining room. From her seat in the corner, Jeri quietly admired its fading brilliance, marking its movement as dusk dragged it slowly into nothingness.